


The Steamboat

by aactionjohnny



Category: The Venture Bros
Genre: Alternate Universe, Attempted Murder, Dimension Travel, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-24
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-06 22:58:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16396694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aactionjohnny/pseuds/aactionjohnny
Summary: Rusty finds himself in another dimension. A dimension where he's, by all measures, a better, luckier man.





	The Steamboat

**Author's Note:**

> This is a commission for a tumblr friend! Contact me @ aaction-johnny.tumblr.com for commission info.

 

He lands on his hands and knees. They’re more calloused than you’d think, for such a delicate man. But after years of falling, he’s built up an immunity to little scrapes and bruises. It’s the bigger things that really hurt him. He sighs, that tired groan he’s perfected after forty-odd years of being fucking over all of this. Over it, under it, crushed so much his shoulders won’t stop sloping and slouching.

But he looks up, hardly ever eager to see whatever nonsense he’s been thrust into. Nothing can surprise him anymore.

He’s almost shocked to see the trappings of his own home. Almost...disappointed. Like he need a fix of absurdity or life just isn’t worth living. He’s got a lot of reasons he’s saved up to think that. A lot of excuses to want to die, just because living is so inconvenient. 

He’s in the lab, the light turned up too bright. His bill is going to be through the roof, and he groans, muttering his sons’ names under his breath. They’ll have to get jobs if they’re going to cost him an arm and a leg like this. Hank especially. And no, that little store where he sells his own shoes doesn’t count.

Rusty dusts himself off as he gets to his feet, wincing at how his joints creak like ancient machinery. He feels so often like a steamboat. Metal and full of smoke. Obsolete, but a novelty for some. He’s _ Rusty Venture, Boy Adventurer _ just as much as he’s _ Rusty Venture, pallid and hairless washup _ . 

“I really gotta get to work,” he admits, though never to anyone to himself, looking around the lab at old abandoned projects--

But everything looks a little bit shiny and new. In-progress and bubbling, buzzing.

“God, Billy, _ come on.  _ You can use the lab if you just ask, you don’t have to sneak in like one of the _ rats of NIMH. _ ..” he complains, though proud of his own joke. He switches off one of the machines that is no doubt using more power than eighteen vacuums at once. The lab falls quiet, and it puts him at ease. That’s how it ought to sound: silent and idle. That’s what he’s used to. But the emptiness illuminates the echo from the halls and stairs, the sound of fine shoes tap-tapping over the tile and wood. Jesus, is White here too? Showing off his faux-leather colonial loafers to no one at all? Rusty certainly doesn’t remember inviting  _ either _ of them over. Like, ever. They just  _ show up _ .

The door swings open, smooth like someone’s greased it, and he sees the shadows of two figures looming down into the staircase. Voices, weirdly familiar, but he can’t quite place it—

“Brock?” he asks, sort of breathless. He hasn’t been around much... _ avoiding me _ , Rusty’s thought for months. Like it’s personal. Like that’s what’s important to Brock, and not his job. That’s what it’s always been. A job. All that shared parenting was just occupational hazard. Timidly he walks toward the staircase, trying to fix his posture as if it’s going to make a damn difference. As if Brock will see him and exclaim  _ oh, you’ve become taller and at all comparable to the kind of man I am! Let’s get a drink!  _ Stupid. 

But when the silhouettes become clear, Rusty sees something he cannot explain. Rare that he doesn’t have a theory as to why the  _ fuck _ he’s looking at himself. Pinstriped suit, full head of hair. So it’s not a mirror. A drug? This is definitely some sort of hallucination or fantasy. Himself, dressed to the nines, grinning ear to ear, pleaded with Brock’s heavy arm tossed around his shoulder.

“What the—“ It’s a good thing he’s so breathless, because his voice is quiet in the vastness of the lab. And, because there is still a foolish part of him that yearns for slapstick adventure, of taking risks and seeing just how far he can push his luck, he dashes behind the old teleporter machine. At least he can still watch from there. And it’s...different. More complete.  _ What the fuck? _ Is he having some fever dream where he’s completed the ultimate game-changer in the world of super science? 

He peaks his head out from behind the massive metal contraption, pushing his glasses up his nose and squinting. It’s like nothing he’s ever experienced before— which, he knows, is saying something extraordinary. Looking at himself, far away enough he could call it a mirage, a trick of his eyes. He always looks at his reflection with such disdain and derision, but  _ this _ ...the hate he feels bubbling in his chest is a new sort of burn. Jealousy. He’s long coveted his brother’s fortune, his bodyguard’s physique, his sons’ youth. But to see himself, standing tall, smiling proud, laughing with his thicker arms across his chest as he gazes lovingly up at  _ that man _ … Rusty tightens his grip on the teleporter, hearing the sound of his bitten nails tapping the metal. 

Luckily, they.. _.him _ . Him and Brock, they both seem too distracted to notice any extraneous noise.  _ That  _ Rusty places his hands on one of the tables and hoists himself onto it with such ease.  _ That  _ Rusty takes of his glasses and cleans them with the tail of his finely-pressed shirt. 

“I’m telling you, Brock, he looked me right in the face and asked:  _ how’s your wife? _ ” Rusty says, punctuating his statement with more laughter. “Like, he had no idea. Who doesn’t  _ at least _ read someone’s Wikipedia page before interviewing them?”

Behind the teleporter, he tightens his lips.  _ What the hell… _

“What did you say?” Brock asks, same deep voice, but more tender, more slow. 

“ _ I  _ didn’t say anything. Hank chimed in with ‘he doesn’t have  _ that  _ kind of beard.’”

Brock shorts and tosses his head back, blonde curls cascading softly over his shoulders.

“Where does he hear this shit?” he asks. “Shore Leave?”

“Damned if I know,” Rusty says, shrugging. “I’m letting him live his life. I can’t suffocate him like he’s still a baby.”

“So long as he doesn’t die I guess…”

“Hm...isn’t that  _ your  _ job?” The other Rusty says, scooting forward some on the table, cocking his head to the side.  _ What the fuck… _

“Am I uh...off the clock right now?” Brock asks, stepping forward, thick palms resting on Rusty’s less-knobby knees.

Rusty, shrinking back behind the teleporter, feels as if he ought to cover his eyes, but he freezes, mouth agape, fingers curled into fists, knuckles scraping the metal. If it was surreal before, it’s even worse now. It’s not as if he’s never thought about it, never wondered just what was so great about  _ Brock Samson, Don Juan extraordinaire _ . Wondered how it might feel to have those rough hands on him in so gentle a manner. But in his head it always looked wrong. His lanky, pale limbs trying to make some approximation of love. Beside Brock he always looks like he’s withering, even on his best days. But watching them, watching  _ himself _ , it looks natural. It looks sweet. They ease into one another.  _ This  _ Rusty is no artifact, no steamboat. He docks like a spacecraft, sleek and well-crafted. He gets surrounded by strong arms, gets to part his knees to surround sturdy hips. He gets kissed like he deserves it, and sober, softly, full of love. 

Rusty gulps. He feels wrong watching it, hopes they don’t escalate, hopes he won’t be forced to watch himself—  _ do that.  _ Because he knows he won’t be able to look away. It’s no car wreck. It’s the majesty of space flight. It’s a display like no other. The love one is  _ supposed _ to have for another person. He’s had no good example. 

A loud beep comes from Brock’s wrist and the two of them sigh.

“Brock?” Over the communicator. It’s Dean, sounding calm. At least there’s no emergency. Brock winces and pats the other Rusty on the cheek apologetically, then answers the hail.

“Yeah Dean?”

“We still on for studying?”

“You bet, kid…”

“Cool! Oh, are you with pop?”

In lieu of answering, Brock turns his wrist toward the other Rusty, who waves lovingly.

“Hi sweetie,” he says, clearly trying to hide whatever libidinal disappointment he feels. Protecting Dean’s feelings… “I’ll help you study tomorrow, okay? Lots of work to do—“

“Pop, I  _ understand. _ You don’t have to apologize every time.”

Rusty doesn’t hear the rest of the exchange. Not really. It’s as if everything goes quiet, as if the world outside of his head is muffled.  _ This  _ Rusty, he lets his sons be their own people, lets them live,  _ apologizes _ to them.  _ This _ Rusty gets a gentle kiss to his head, full of hair, before Brock leaves. It’s just not fair…

As Brock approaches the stairs he wiggles farther behind the teleporter to stay out of sight. The grin on his bodyguard’s face cuts him through the ribs. He’s never seen him look quite like that. He’s never seen  _ himself  _ look quite like that, smiling and biting his lower lip, running a finger along the lab table. So coy and giddy, watching Brock climb the stairs and exit. 

And his  _ suit,  _ and his  _ hairdo _ , and that  _ damn smile _ . The photos of Hank and Dean on the desk, from infancy to young adulthood. The bright lights, the busy equipment. He realizes then that his nails are digging hard into his palms, his teeth grinding so much it hears it in his head. This bastard. This asshole. What did he do differently to get everything he ever wanted? To have love and money and hair and  _ purpose? _ Hallucination or not, it makes him seethe. He doesn’t take the time to think. To evaluate like a scientist ought to. To look, to touch his surroundings and figure out just what the fuck is going on.

He takes a steadying breath and pushes off of the teleporter, cracking his wrists and elbows. The other Rusty has turned back to his work, humming softly as he rifles through papers.  _ God _ , they even have the same music taste. He can’t even be bothered to consider, right now, where he went wrong, if he can still fix it, if it’s not too late…

He slips off his shoes, opting for a quiet approach. He tiptoes up behind himself— so surreal. He’s thought about killing himself plenty of times, acted on it a few, but like  _ this? _ With his bare hands around his own skinny neck? The nape of it looks so soft, the warm red of the hair fading into pale skin. But still Rusty reaches up, wrapping his skinny fingers around that throat. 

“Wh—“ The other Rusty is quick to react, grabbing for the assaulting wrists and pinching at his palms to free himself. Motherfucker learned how to fight, probably from his boyfriend-bodyguard hybrid. But Rusty doesn’t give up just yet, reaching for whatever shining metal lab equipment he can grasp and lunging at his doppelgänger, tackling him at the waist. “Hck—“

They land with a crash into the table, breaking glass and causing a veritable mushroom cloud of paper.

“Who the hell do you th— hey!” The other Rusty grabs his wrist to keep him from stabbing him with a— tuning fork. What are they running some sort of  _ clinic _ out of here? 

There’s a brief look of abject terror in the other Rusty’s eyes as he lay pinned beneath this familiar stranger, but soon his brow furrows and his mouth curls into an angry frown.

“Oh god dammit not  _ again…”  _ Grunting, he tries to wiggle free, holding Rusty’s wrist at so sensitive a spot he feels paralyzed. “I am sick and tired of people coming into this dimension. I need to have White install some sort of temporal  _ firewall… _ ” 

With ease he overpowers Rusty, throwing him off of him and grabbing him by the ear.

“Ow—!!” 

“Oh don’t you complain, mister, you’re the one who just barged in here.”

“I have so many questions! Please—“

“How were you planning on  _ asking  _ them? After having choked me?”

The other Rusty punches a large red button on the wall as he drags him over, and after a low rumble, a glowing, impossible portal opens up.

“Wait, before we go—“ Rusty protests, squirming, looking around the lab for clues, answers. Desperately trying to absorb all he can of this perfect, other life… “What did we do differently?” 

The other Rusty pauses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand.

“...there was a time that I was the kind of person who would  _ ask _ what I had to do to not be a terrible, pathetic man,” he answers, refusing eye contact. “You already know what you have to do, idiot.” 

Rusty parts his lips to beg for more answers, to ask for clarification, but soon they’re stepping through the portal. It feels like a dream, like flight. He knows it’s real, but it can’t be. Nothing could ever make him act so sweet, smile so wide, talk so gently. Nothing could make him admit how nice it would be, wrapped up in Brock’s arms, telling his sons each day  _ love you, boys. Don’t forget. _

But he has to go back. He wishes he could stay suspended here. His own purgatory, Schrodinger’s misery, neither existing nor disappearing.

But he feels soon the cold air of his own world. The halogen bulbs of the boys’ room. 

He’s sure he’ll leave the questions in that portal. He’ll look at his sons and make the same old snide remarks, roll his eyes the same. He’ll run into Brock and berate him for leaving, and there will be no tenderness in his scolding. He’ll reach up to his head, the old phantom habit of pulling fingers through his hair still just as useless as it has been for years. Just as useless as him.

He lands on his hands and knees. He can’t let it hurt like he knows it should.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This made me emo. Rusty we still love you even if you're terrible.


End file.
